“I am so sorry,” Gavin starts. “We did everything we could do. It just wasn’t enough.” The woman buries her heart-shaped face in her hands. Gavin notices the simple small diamond attached to a silver band on her left hand ring finger. He places his hand on her shoulder comfortingly. “I know how hard this is for you but my assistant, Dr. Mortem, needs to ask you a few questions about organ donation.” Her plump body begins to tremble, quickly turning to violent shakes. Her sobs turn to heartbroken moans.

“You don’t,” she whispers.

“I don’t what?”

“You don’t know how hard this is for me.” Her glassy brown eyes peek over the top of her dark beige slender fingers. The woman’s eyes glare at his wedding ring.

“You still have yours.”

In this moment Gavin wishes he could go back. He wishes he could go back to kindergarten where he splattered bright purple paint on a canvas with his tiny fingers. He wishes he could go back to elementary school. Memories of his giving his first girlfriend a ring made out of a blade of grass and his “late nights” studying for multiplication tests comfort him. He remembers what it was like before everyday sunk to a new low with the constant need to make money. Gavin remembers the nights he snuck out to feel exhilaration of life drunk; contrasting the present, where he drinks to to forget his life. To forget the faces of patients; the thought of casket after casket piling up into the back of a truck. He longs for the day he was proud of the scrape on his knee from falling off his tricycle. He thought it made him special to be hurt. Every memory of ignorance, every memory of innocence, every memory of happiness flashes through this singular second. His fingers fiddle with his wedding ring; his thumb pushing it around in circles. His eyes fade into memories of his partner.

“I still have mine.” The woman just curls back into herself. Her knees pushing into her eyes. Gavin turns around, motioning Dr. Mortem to assist the woman. Gavin’s mind swallows him into a haze. His limbs go on autopilot as he enters the changing room and undresses from his scrubs and coat. He barely winces at the claws of his stiff jeans digging into his legs. His fingers slip each white button through it’s hole on their own accord. His shoes lace themselves and his legs move on their own. His arms push door after door open because they want to. His voice says good night to his colleagues because his voice likes to be polite.

As soon as the starless night greets him, he says hello and reaches up for a long awaited hug.